Filthy riches, p.42
Filthy Riches, page 42
“I’m lonely, but I’ve got rechargeable batteries.”
We all laugh, and my phone rings. I pull it out, checking the screen. “Shit, girls, it’s my boss. Says he’s got a rush job for me to complete.”
“How’s he working out, anyway?” Charlotte asks as I finish my drink quickly. “And have you started working for The Golden Child yet?”
“Nope, I’ve never seen him except for the publicity stuff,” I reply honestly. “He’s the penthouse. I’m the basement. Twenty-four floors in between us. Anyway, I gotta jet, so I’ll talk to you girls soon, okay?”
“Yup . . . I’m going to relax for this next ten minutes before I need to clock back in myself,” Izzy says, stretching out. “Gimme a call later?”
I nod, blowing them a kiss, and head back to work.
Chapter 2
Thomas
Looking out over Roseboro, I feel like I’m looking over my empire.
Of course, I’m joking . . . but maybe not so much.
Twenty-five years ago, this town was just a suburb of a suburb of Portland. Though it was already up and coming, I’d like to think that over the past six years I’ve added my fair share to this place.
I’d finished my MBA at Stanford and set up shop in the growing town, watching the landscape change and cultivating the business interests that serve me best. Because I haven’t just watched. I’ve worked my ass off to get Goldstone where it is today.
Still, I made sure to keep the competition in sight, literally.
My office faces the Blackwell Building, a one-mile gap separating the two tallest buildings in the city. It helps me keep things in perspective. I came to town because I saw potential, even if Blackwell had already created something big here.
But this place is too fertile for him to fully take advantage of. A rose that, if tended right, can provide more blossoms than any one man could utilize.
I watch the morning sun hit the black tower. I’ll give Blackwell grudging respect. His design might be morbid, but it’s also cutting-edge. All that black is absorbing the solar energy and using it for electricity and heating. The man was environmental before environmental was actually cool.
Too bad you’ll never be that. You’re just a wannabe, another young upstart who’ll never stand the test of time.
I growl, pushing away the voice from inside me, even though I know it’ll be back. It never really goes away, not for long. No matter how much I achieve, that voice of insecurity still resides in my center, ready to cast doubt and shadows on each success.
The soft ding from my computer reminds me that my ten minutes of morning meditation are over, and I turn back around, looking at my desk and office. It’s nothing lavish. I designed this space for maximum efficiency and productivity.
So my Herman Miller chair is not in my office for lapped luxury, or for its black and chrome styling, but for the fact that it’s rated the best chair for productivity. Same with my desk, my computer, everything.
Everything is tuned toward efficient use of my time and my efforts.
I launch into it, going through my morning assignments, answering the emails that my secretary, Kerry, cannot answer for me, and making a flurry of decisions on projects that Goldstone is working on.
Finally, just as the clock on my third screen beeps one o’clock, I send off my final message and stand up. Locking my computer, I transfer everything to my server upstairs in case I need it.
I see Kerry sitting at her desk as I leave my office. She’s well-dressed as usual, her sunkissed skin and black hair gleaming mellowly under the office lighting, the perfect epitome of a professional executive assistant. While she works for me, she has this older sibling protective instinct. It’s not often that I need it, but I appreciate her looking out for me.
“Need something, Mr. Goldstone?” she asks.
“Just headed upstairs,” I tell her.
“Of course,” she replies, her eyes cutting to her computer screen. “Just a reminder, sir, the governor will be hosting his charity event tonight at seven. I’ve already had your tuxedo dry-cleaned, and your car detailer called. Your car will be ready and downstairs by three this afternoon.”
I give her a nod. Three’s plenty of time. “I just sent you a list of other projects to work on, by the way.”
“Of course, Mr. Goldstone. I was looking that over, and I got an email from Hank also, the team leader you assigned the Taiwan shipping contract to. He said that he’s going to have to take a day off Friday, sir. His daughter’s going to college this year, and he promised her that he’d drive her up so she can get settled into the dorm.”
I stop, pursing my lips. “What is her name?”
Kerry taps her desk for a moment, searching her memory. “Erica, sir.”
“Tell Hank that I understand and wish Erica the best, but if he isn’t at work on Friday, don’t bother coming in on Monday.”
My tone has grown serious, and Kerry’s eyes tighten, but she knows Hank is crossing a line. He should’ve given notice, especially when he’s working a contract this important.
He’s usually a good employee. But he knew his daughter was starting classes. No excuse for that.
No excuse for you, you mean. Failure just drips down from the boss’s office down to Hank, that’s all.
Leaving the twenty-fifth floor of the Goldstone building, I take the stairs up a level to stretch my legs. Not many people even know about this floor other than the executives. To everyone else, the Goldstone Building has twenty-five floors.
The twenty-sixth is mine. It’s my penthouse, and while it isn’t quite as large as the other floors, it’s still six thousand square feet of space that’s just for me.
I strip off my dress shirt, tie, and slacks, depositing everything in the laundry chute before pulling on my workout clothes.
Today’s upper body day, and as I go into my home gym, I swing my arms to loosen up my shoulders. They’re going to be punished today. Starting with bench presses, I assault my body, pushing myself to press the bar one more time, to get the fucking dumbbells up despite the pain, despite gravity kicking my ass.
Just like everything kicks your ass.
The finisher for today is brutal, even for me. The 300 . . . 100 burpees, 100 dips, and 100 pullups, in sets of ten, nonstop. By the time I’m finished, sweat pools on the rubberized gym flooring beneath me.
I have to force myself to my feet because I refuse to be broken by anything, even something as meaningless as a workout that’s supposed to do exactly that.
Instead, I jump in for a quick shower and meditate for twenty minutes after. I need to focus because running Goldstone is a mental exercise.
Closing my eyes, I force myself to push all the responsibilities away, to let it all fade into the background.
I push away the flashbacks, the voice in my head, the memories that threaten from time to time, and imagine my perfect world . . . my empire. My perfect Roseboro, deep red petals soft as velvet and eternally blooming, ready to be passed from my generation to the next for tending and care.
I know I can do it.
I must do it.
Changing into my tuxedo, I head downstairs to the freshly cleaned limo waiting to take me to this event. The Roseboro Civic Library is one of the newest public buildings in town, a beautiful hundred-thousand-square-foot building in three wings over two floors. The central wing is named for Horatio Roseboro, who founded the city in memory of his daughter, who died on the Oregon Trail, while the other two wings are named for the main benefactors . . . Goldstone and Blackwell. My only request was that the Goldstone wing contain the children’s section, and they were more than willing to do that.
Tonight, though, it’s the scene for a fundraiser for the governor’s favorite charity. Governor Gary Langlee tends to ignore Roseboro most of the time—we’re not his voter base—but when it comes time to get money, he’ll go just about anywhere he can if someone will cross his palm with a little bit of green.
I arrive at just the right time, ten minutes before seven, in order to get the best of the press. I tolerate the leeches more than like them, but I do understand that the fourth estate has a purpose and a job to do.
And there are legit journalists who I respect. It’s just the paparazzi and empty talking heads that I despise.
So I smile for the cameras, giving a little wave and shaking hands with our local state representative before heading into the foyer, where the party has already started.
“Ah, Thomas!” the mayor says, greeting me in that hearty way that really endears him to the locals. “I’m so glad you could make it.”
“You know me, never pass up a chance to press the flesh,” I reply, making him laugh. He knows I’m lying but thinks that I’m only here because of the press and good PR that Goldstone will get for tonight.
The reality is far different. While Governor Langlee and I might not see eye to eye on most public policies, I actually agree with the goals of tonight’s event.
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourself,” the mayor says after a moment when I don’t follow up.
Clearing his throat, he looks around. “If you don’t mind telling me, Thomas, there’s a rumor around town that Goldstone is looking into building a sea transportation hub in Roseboro. I’m not saying I wouldn’t appreciate it, but if you are, I happen to know a man who’s got about seven hundred and fifty acres just outside of town. It’s county land, but I’m sure we could work something out.”
That’s the mayor . . . a good ol’ boy to the voters, a sneaky dealmaker to those with money. The man would sell his grandmother’s grave if it’d make him a buck.
Oh, like you’ve been such a good son.
“If we do move on such a project, I’ll be sure to keep City Hall informed,” I tell him with a smile that turns just a little predatory at the end. “But of course, I would do my due diligence on the property. No use wasting my money when it could be spent on a proper seaport instead of along the Columbia?”
The mayor blanches just a little, which is what I want. A tiny reminder that while he may hold office, I hold the funds that make this city thrive or fail. Or at least a large share of the finances that do so.
Leaving him, I do my best to ‘mingle’. I know the faces. I’ve seen it all before.
A pat on the back here for a friend.
A backhanded compliment for the enemy whom you can’t quite man up and call out in public. The icy stare from across the room at those whose families have somehow found the time to engage in feuds despite not having the time to make a difference in the world.
It’s all old hat, and while some might find it interesting, I just tolerate it to get my goal here tonight done.
Finally, at nine o’clock, I can’t do it any longer. I retreat to the children’s section, which is relatively quiet in comparison, and I look over the newest books on the display.
“You know, I’m not too sure if Long Way Down really belongs in the children’s section,” a throaty voice says behind me, and I turn to see Meghan Langlee, Governor Langlee’s daughter.
She’s wearing a Chanel cocktail dress that fits her like a glove, highlighting a very fit body and a camera grabbing face. A former beauty queen like her mother, Meghan’s parlayed her looks into a budding career as a political pundit.
“Actually, I personally insisted on it,” I reply, turning away from her and looking at the books again. “While the subject matter might be a little dark and violent, the days of young people growing up needing little more than The Andy Griffith Show and reading Judy Blume are pretty much over.”
“Hmm, well, I’ll say my father would disapprove, but I understand what you mean,” she says, stepping closer. “You know, Mr. Goldstone . . . mind if I call you Tom?”
“If you wish,” I reply, sizing her up immediately. She must be up to something, she’s coming on too hard, too boldly.
It wouldn’t surprise me if she’s been sent here on a mission. Her father’s a weasel and would see no issue with using his only daughter this way.
She takes my arm, as if she expects me to suddenly escort her and be happy to do so, giving me a false coquettish giggle. “Ooh. I’ve heard your reputation Tom, that you’re pretty rigid in your fitness routines, but wow, this tux is hiding a beast underneath all this worsted wool.”
“Clean eating and good habits,” I reply, already tiring of her and her lazily flirtatious innuendos. She tries to lead me back to the main wing, and I follow along simply to avoid any issues, but when she sees one of the press and starts trying to angle us in that direction, I pull my arm free. “Excuse me, Miss Langlee.”
She looks surprised, anger hiding in her eyes. I doubt she’s used to being denied. She reaches out and grabs my arm again, pulling herself close.
“Come on now, Tom. I’m sure we can find a little bit of fun.”
I can’t tolerate this any longer, and I pull away, my voice tight. “Sorry. I haven’t had my rabies booster this year.”
I walk away, cursing myself at that last crack. Turning her down cold? That’s one thing.
But essentially calling her a disease-infested slut was probably too much.
“One of these days, you’re going to piss off someone important,” she says threateningly to my back. When I don’t reply, she stomps her foot like a petulant toddler, loud enough to cut through the hubbub of the party as she calls out, “Bastard!”
Everything stops, and I nod, glancing back over my shoulder at her with a charming smile. “That’s one of the things they call me.”
I keep going, and as I pass by the governor, he gives me a dirty look. Reaching out, he puts a hand on my arm.
“You know, my daughter—” he starts, already conciliatory, which makes me think he knew exactly what Meghan’s game was tonight.
I don’t let him finish. I just shrug him off, ignoring the snapping cameras. I only pause at the door to reach into my jacket and pull out an envelope that I slide into the donation box.
It’s unmarked . . . but that’s just what I want.
Chapter 3
Blackwell
The shadows of the unused wing conceal me, just as I planned. There are no lights up here, just the glow from down below, which is just how I like it.
Why should I waste my time mingling among the players on stage when I can be the director, up here in the shadows until the right moment for my cameo?
The velvet rope across the stairs to the upper floor sends a tasteful but pointed point to the people down below, giving me the privacy I want.
I sip my glass of Seleccion Suprema, enjoying the subtle tones of the fine tequila while watching Thomas Goldstone storm out of the library, the governor outraged and his little tramp of a daughter staring dark murder at him. It’s exactly what I wanted.
“Scurry home, Golden Boy,” I whisper, sipping my drink again. “Storm out of here, showing the whole world your weakness.”
I’ve studied my adversary from afar for years, ever since The Golden Boy turned his attention from minor league playing the market and posting dramatic percentage gains to actually slinging weight in Roseboro.
I’ll admit, I underestimated him at first. I laughed when Goldstone established his first ‘headquarters’ and even rented him the first building. The old three-story building had sat empty for awhile, caught in that gap between small business and big business and too difficult to divide up. I figured it could come to some use at least that way, but I’d thought Goldstone would crash and burn after a few years.
Little did I expect to have to look out of my office window to see Goldstone’s own building, nearly as tall as my own, every morning.
I shake my head, wondering where I’d gone wrong. It should have taken him another decade or more to get to where he is now. It makes no logical sense for the Golden Boy, at just over half my age, to have already closed the gap on me so quickly.
I’d run the numbers and taken the time to double-check the figures personally . . . and knew the day after Goldstone cut the ribbon on that shining monstrosity a mile from my own tower that if I didn’t do something to destroy Thomas Goldstone, he’d steal my throne as the richest man in Roseboro.
Goldstone is poised to relegate me to the list of also-rans, the men who were big but not the biggest.
History remembers Secretariat, not the horses who finished second behind him.
I have no intention of ending my life as anything other than the undisputed master of my domain. Some may call me a dictator . . . but at least they’ll remember me.
And so I plot, and tonight, I confirmed a suspicion I’ve had for a long time. Thomas Goldstone’s infamous temper is very real and rather raw when it comes to beautiful women.
He didn’t show it outwardly, and I’ll give him that much. There was no yelling, no screaming like I’ve heard rumors about. But to just impetuously pull his arm away from Governor Langlee like that? Ill-advised, to say the least.
I chuckle and watch the governor console his stupid, status-seeking daughter while trying to get the focus back on tonight’s charity cause.
Men’s dress shoes click on the tile flooring of the landing. I refuse to let my wing of the library be sullied with anything as plebeian as fuzzy carpet like Goldstone has in the children’s wing. There’s a reason they’re called rugrats, after all.
Still, the shadows are so thick that even up close, I know the man can’t see my face clearly, although the obsidian cufflinks on my tuxedo clearly reveal my identity.
Not too many people can pull off obsidian and platinum cufflinks while not mingling with the crowd.
“Sir, I assume you saw that?”
My operative is dressed like most of the men downstairs, in a suit that is appropriate for the evening but not a tuxedo. No, only the crème de la crème are wearing tuxedos, and I need my man to stay anonymous.
Which, in many respects, is very hard to do in a gossipy upper-crust crowd who eyes any newcomer with scrutiny and obvious analysis of their financial bearing. And unfortunately, my operative is as status-hungry as the governor’s daughter, in his own way.
